where do old birds go to die?

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the old birds in my yard⠀
fly away to distant lands⠀
for deceptive summer eves have come⠀
yet again with their wild rains⠀
and malicious clouds.⠀
I sit on my balcony cross-legged⠀
sipping warm whiskey⠀
watching the sunset paint ⠀
the northern skies sepia.⠀
I hear the rustling leaves of the devil’s trees⠀
within the premises of that old temple by the lake⠀
where women used to worship serpents and fairies once⠀
collapsed into a rubble of stones with time.⠀
eerie questions suck on the abysses
under my skin like leeches⠀
and I feel as if I’m⠀
on the edge of an apocalypse.⠀
I ask, “who makes leaves fall in autumn”?⠀
“why were thorny roses prettier than tranquil jasmines”?
“where do old birds go to die ?⠀
do they ever cry for their wrinkled destinies ?⠀
do their tears fall off from their homes in the highs of heavenly trees ?⠀
do their nestlings weep at their demises?”⠀
I heave a deep sigh into the cold air⠀
close my eyes and see old birds going to die.⠀
and I tell myself⠀
'maybe I’ll mourn their death at my own grave.’

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